The Writer

He came back and sat down beside me to put down the two cups he brought back with him. “With almond milk” he said and pointed at the cup closer to me with his whole hand. I looked at him and gave him a smile. He glanced at me briefly, his eyes felt warm on me, and then turned forward to look back at the rainbow sky of the setting Sun beneath us.  I crawled my palms to my cup and held it with both hands, collecting its warmth.  I looked down at the cup and its sipping sprout. It was aligned with the logos both on the cup and on the sleeve. I smiled and took a deep breath and raised my head to look at him again.  Coffee in his hand he had gotten up, he was leaning over the railing of the bookstore’s balcony cafe on the 5th floor. I sat back with my cup, watching him. He had worn his brown pullover I always loved the soft material of. Laying on his elbows his whole torso was hanging over the sky looking over the Mediterranean Sea which glowed orange and gold.  His thinning hair, his tanned neck with a maze of soft wrinkles, his coarsening hands and the contentment in his whole body. And his eyes. His eyes sparkled dreamily. He came back to sit down beside me.  Quietly he put his arm around my shoulders and laid his head sideways on mine. I smiled to myself, wondering what the young woman was typing on her tablet, glancing over us oldies every once in a while.